The Cotswolds Werewolf and other Stories of Sherlock Holmes

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The Adventure of the Cotswolds Werewolf

I. A Quiet Corner of England

In the early autumn of 189-, my friend Sherlock Holmes and I decided to spend a restful week at a hotel in the heart of the Cotswolds. It was a Friday when we set out from Paddington station with our luggage neatly stowed in the overhead shelves of a first-class compartment, and the lazy September sun enveloping the brownstone buildings of inner London in its shuddering rays. I was looking forward to our trip with some trepidation, having recently witnessed how my good friend had descended into some form of indefinable ennui. As usual, it was the result of lacking mental stimulation, although this time the customary episode of boredom and apathy had given way to a lengthy bout of depression and anguish. The only possible cure that occurred to me was a retreat into the countryside. At the back of my head, however, I feared that this was an all too conventional solution to an unconventional problem.

During the entire trip, Holmes remained silent. He avoided my gaze as he had for days, and devoted his time to uneasy meditation and to the study of a black clothbound volume that he had acquired a few weeks earlier, but which he refused to allow me a closer look at. He had consented to the trip quite reluctantly, of course, and as I was unsure myself of the efficacy of this remedy I wavered slightly, but then I thought there would be no point in me appearing hesitant, and so I stood firm, until Holmes capitulated one day, sighing from the depth of his armchair: Well, I might as well do nothing there as here. Those were the only words I had heard him utter for several days when we embarked on our journey.

As we left London behind us, and the industrialised landscape of the Thames valley slowly receded, the greenness of the surrounding countryside increased, reminding me how long it had been since I last allowed myself a good breath of country air. The sight of the green and pleasant hills seemed to make Holmes slightly more animated as well, and eventually he closed his book and settled himself to enjoy the view, letting the little volume slide into the side pocket of his Norfolk jacket. I was, of course, delighted, but refrained from commenting on it so as not to make him self-aware.

In the late hours of the afternoon, we arrived at Moreton-in-Marsh, in the heart of the Cotswolds. The tiny station consisted of a small wooden hut on either side of the railway tracks. The platforms were peopled by a diminutive assembly of station masters, porters, odd-job menand a couple of shunting horses waiting to become useful. Having disembarked, we were promptly accosted by a young cab driver whose keen eye had evidently managed to spot the two most lucrative clients in the vicinity. We had no reason not to take him up on his offer of a ride, and followed him to his horse and trap on the far side of the platform. Our goal for the journey was a little hamlet called Upper Slaughter, the seclusion of which had been guaranteed to me by a colleague of mine, who had recommended the little village inn that went by the name of The Briar. Our cabbie deposited us in front of its thatched exterior, and I noticed in the corner of my eye how Holmes descended from the vehicle, looking about himself with an air of something that could either be skepticism or foreboding.

The inn was located in the absolute centre of the village, along the stretch of a gravelly village street lined by little quaint houses. A few yards away there was an intersection, and the connecting road rose up on a hillside, the top of which was adorned by a small but sturdy medieval church.

Well, what do you think? I asked Holmes.

I think... He sighed and frowned. I think it’s going to rain.

I looked up at the sky and realised that his conclusion was no act of genius. The outlook was positively dismal. We lifted our luggage which had been thrown down on the ground by the amiable cabbie, and hurried inside. It took a few seconds for my eyes to get used to the darkness that enveloped us. We had come into a small antechamber whose walls were covered in a wainscoting of dark oak, and the only source of light was a paraffin lamp standing on a squat side table in one corner. The experience was something very similar to entering a tomb. Through the open door behind us we could hear thunder, and soon the rain started pouring down. The darkness of the room was amplified by the closing of the door by a little figure thatmoved through the shadows, but soon stepped out in front of us holding a flickering candle.

Good afternoon, gentlemen, it said. I fear our weather is not the most welcoming.

The voice was an old lady’s, and as she turned up the flame of the paraffin lamp, we could gradually make out her features, a look of kindness framed by a couple of round cheeks. The combination of intimidating darkness and the gentleness of the welcome confused me as to how I should respond.

You are our guests from London, I take it? she said.

Holmes gave me a sidelong glance, wordlessly commanding me to be our spokesperson.

We are, I said, failing to imitate the woman’s enthusiasm. I am Dr John Watson. This is Mr Holmes.

Ah, yes, the two gentlemen. Welcome to the Briar. I am the owner and proprietor of this establishment, Mrs. Faversham.

And with these introductory remarks, the usual series of courtesies had commenced. Holmes played, as was his custom, a very minor role in this interchange. He could be cordial and sociable at times, but mostly, and more frequently of late, he abhorred the superficiality of idle chatter. He had explained his stance on it to me a number of times, and I could understand it to a certain degree, but my feeling was always that this attitude constituted something of an arrogant perspective on daily life and the simple people. We cannot go through life talking profound philosophy and displaying a full conscience in every single moment, I would say. We need to get on with our lives! And what is more, the simple people, which, to be honest, is the overwhelming majority of humankind, enjoy life without philosophy or analysis. But the discussion is an eternal one.

Hence I could seldom experience moments like this without feeling just a little irritated at Holmes’ arrogance and impatience, but I said nothing, reminding myself that this was the beginning of a slow process towards recovery. Mrs. Faversham showed us to our rooms, after pointing out the location of a comfortable parlour and dining room either side of the dark reception that we had entered into. The moment Mrs. Faversham reached out the key to Holmes, he snatched it from her, voicing a quick Thank you, Mrs. Faversham! and hurried into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. I said something about a foul temper as explanation to the slightly shocked landlady, and then retreated into my own room.

I suppose I had taken for granted that I would meet Holmes at dinner that evening, but when he subsequently failed to make an appearance, it all seemed quite obvious to me. Would I see anything at all of him for the next few days? Would he eat? Would he leave his room? Would he leave and not come back? The reasons for worry piled up, and I recognised the burden of stress upon my own shoulders. I tried to tell myself that what I could do at this time was to concentrate on my own relaxation. And so I tried to forget Holmes. He is a grown man, I thought, and can take responsibility for himself. I did not know if it was true.

Coming down to dinner, I found my way into the dining room through a suite of darkened parlours, cluttered with odd furniture, sheepskin rugs and stuffed animals that looked as if they hadn’t seen a duster for years. The only sound came from an old grandfather clock, ticking as noisily as if it was some large piece of industrial machinery, and the rain on the windows. The dinner service had already begun. Mrs. Faversham was sitting at the head of the table, flanked by a motley collection of old men and women. They were introduced to me as Colonel Draycot, a retired serviceman, Mr Bevis Tipsy, an amateur draughtsman, and Florence Gilchrist, a local widow. I was no longer a young man, but I felt positively puerile in the present company. The dinner commenced without further ado, and I was introduced to the guests, gradually acquiring an insight into the serene but tedious goings-on of the locality. I received the impression that this quiet corner of the world was a place where relatively undistinguished but well-off people came to spend their autumn years, indulging in the usual activities of fishing, painting indifferent watercolours and aimlessly documenting the local plant life. Colonel Draycot turned out to be nurturing an interest in folklore, and spent his days walking around the vicinity, knocking on the doors of distant farmhouses and interrogating poor country folk about their local traditions, folksongs and whether or not they believed in fairies. Mr Tipsy likewise spent his days trotting about the wet grasslands with an easel under his arm, and was currently engaged in a project wherein he was making drawings of straws of grass, the description of which I nodded in response to with feigned fascination. And Mrs. Gilchrist talked to us about knitting, which seemed to be all she was interested in talking about.

As we moved into the parlour for a drink, we were joined by the local vicar, who was my age, and seemed a decent sort of man. His name was Tibbins, and he was a jovial and amusing fellow. Making a welcome change from the others, he was kind enough to take an interest in me, and it wasn’t until he had been able to work out that I was the Watson who, with an increasing infrequency, was chronicling the achievements of my investigating companion that the rest of the company was struck with a sudden keen curiosity. I was unwilling to say too much on the matter, however, and even managed to stifle Mrs. Faversham when she was about to announce that I was here in company with Holmes. When they realised they were not going to get anything interesting out of me, they soon tired, and the topic of conversation changed.

Only when the guests had left, leaving me alone with Mr Tibbins, did the conversation turn to juicier topics. Having reclined into a couple of armchairs with a decanter of port between us, we mused on the weather, the current state of the empire and the recent deplorable efforts in British cricket. Quite soon, I couldn’t help but notice, however, that something was on the young vicar’s mind.

Is something troubling you, Mr Tibbins? I asked.

He slid a hand across his furrowed brow, and shot me a weary glance.

Well, since you ask, he said, and since you seem to be a man of the world, you might oblige me with a fresh perspective on a business that has been on my mind of late.

I am intrigued. Tell me about it.

Mr Tibbins emptied his glass of port and chose his words.

There is, in the adjoining valley, an old established sheep farmer called Parker. He is one of the most successful sheep farmers in this part of the country, and his sheep graze all over the surrounding pastures. Last week, it came to my attention that four of his sheep had been found killed in the next valley. And not only that, their deaths had been executed in the most gruesome manner, leaving beyond all doubt that they had been ripped apart by some savage animal. I did not visit the spot myself, but my wife, who is knowledgeable in anatomy, saw the remains, and locals tell of a gruesome scene, body parts and pools of blood spread across a considerable area.

My God. Howatrocious.

That is not all. Since then, I have heard stories from other villages in the vicinity, of other sheep farmers having their sheep butchered in this way. And there is even talk of a cow in Staunton that came back from grazing with bleeding wounds made by an animal’s claws.

But what sort of animal is there in these parts that would inflict such injuries?

That is exactly the part of it that is vexing me.

England has no large predators. Foxes, surely, but what sort of fox would attack a large cow? Unless... unless of course it is some exotic animal that has escaped from a zoo or a circus, or even from the menagerie at some local estate. Holmes and I once had reason to visit an estate that had both a baboon and a cheetah roaming free in the grounds!

Indeed? Well, that sounds like a reasonable explanation.

He rubbed his chin.

But you don’t seem inclined towards it, I remarked.

Well. There are no zoos or menageries in this area as far as I know. And circuses seldom visit this part of the country. We’re too far away from the towns. Then again, I wonder... I wonder...

Come now, Mr Tibbins. There is a theory of your own taking shape in your head. But you seem unwilling to share it.

It is only a fancy. You would laugh at it.

Not at all!

Well, being a doctor and a gentleman from the city, you must understand that our country ways might seem foreign to you, ancient even.

My good vicar, I am enlightened enough not to discard provincial people as savages just for being simpleminded.

Of course. I should not have underestimated you.

So...?

So. Being a man of God, I have seen some strange things in my times. And even though I might still pass for a young man, I am not unfamiliar with the old ways and the ancient roots of my belief. And that is probably why I must attribute some of this to the principal antagonist of my organisation.

You mean...?

Satan.

Ah.

I hope I do not shock you, Doctor, but when something like this happens, raw and brutal violence in its purest form. It must be the work of the evil one.

I am not judging you, vicar, but it is an old maxim of Holmes’, that we should start by eliminating the most reasonable explanations, moving methodically towards the less likely ones, and not consider them until the others have been falsified.

I appreciate that, Dr Watson, but I must confess my position is ambiguous. For a man of the cloth, how unreasonable or fantastic is the belief in the intervention of the devil into the world of humans? What am I supposed to believe? I am also a man of reason, and I believe in science and empiricism.

Well, I could not advise you in theological matters, but I know that there is no point in worrying before one has all the facts. I take it a formal inquiry is being conducted, so maybe you should curb your misapprehensions until you know what comes out of it?

You’re probably right, Doctor. Whenever I relapse into talk of devils and demons, I hear the echo of my father’s voice. It’s frightening, isn’t it, how we all turn into exact copies of our parents as the years go by?

I smiled, and, for the first time in a few minutes, so did he. He declared his intention to call it a night, and I thanked him for his company. He thanked me for reassuring him about the sheep massacre, and then he was on his way. It had stopped raining, but outside it was pitch dark and I wondered how he would ever be able to find his way home. I climbed the stairs while slowly unbuttoning my waistcoat, feeling tired but also quite at peace with myself and the placid surroundings I had found myself in. On the way to my bedroom, I passed the door to Holmes’ room, and paused. I leaned in towards the door but could hear nothing. I even went down on one knee to peer in through the keyhole, and I could just make out a faint light within, but there was neither sound nor movement.I decided to allow Holmes to do his own bidding and went to get some sleep, which I was sure Holmes would not.

The next morning was grey and cold, but I awoke with a zeal that invoked me to go for a long walk directly after breakfast. At breakfast, I asked Mrs. Faversham if she had seen Holmes around, and she replied that he had requested that his breakfast be sent up